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  PREVIEW: Enjoy the first two chapters of “The Antique Hunters,” by L.H. Thomson

  CH. 1

  In the sharp light of the squash court, Burton Trimble looked unwell.

  He was breathing hard, his tummy straining against a white golf shirt. He’d leaned forward in the service box, hands on his knees and his weight on his thighs, racket in one hand, a small bead of sweat tracing the border of his slightly unkempt brown hair.

  “Are you OK, mate?” asked his friend Stuart. He was ready to serve, but noticed Burton’s slump. “You don’t look good.”

  Burton took another deep breath then straightened up, trying to keep a stiffer upper lip despite his fatigue. He blew out a heavy lungful of air. “Fine, fine. Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure? Your pallor is ... well, you look clammy. Are you sure you shouldn’t sit down?”

  Stuart was English, and therefore an expert on pale, clammy skin.

  Flourishing his squash racket with unconvincing confidence, Burton said, “No, no. Don’t you worry. Just another sleepless night.”

  “But Burton, you’re sweating like a horse...”

  “Yes...”

  “We haven’t even started playing yet.”

  It was true. The two other men who were just leaving the court finished packing their things and had just swung open the door. One of them nodded at Burton. “You should take your limey friend’s advice, pal: you don’t look so good,” he said before exiting.

  Burton took another deep breath, then attempted to bounce in place a bit, to show how limber and fit he was. “Right, we can get on with the thrashing I intend to hand you.”

  Stuart looked at his friend quizzically. “Are you quite sure? I mean, are you quite sure I can’t call you a doctor or something? You look really bloody awful. My ex-wife had jaundice once, and she looked healthier.”

  Rolling his eyes, Burton gestured towards the front wall. “Just serve the ball, Stuart.”

  “Well, OK, if you’re absolutely sure. I mean, it’s not as if ...”

  Burton was so tired, his concentration evaporated. He’d been up until all hours at a charity fundraiser hosted by one of Delphinium’s friends, at the sort of enormous Gothic mansion robber barons used to build to insulate themselves from the insecurities of the outside world, a grand old prop from a Poe short story that could have served the double function of scaring the hell out of little children.

  Usually, his wife spared him the aching arches and the light, near-paralytic banter from her society crowd. But on this occasion, she was quite evidently trying to impress the father of one of her girlfriends, a large, waist-coated, elderly gent who seemed to fit the party’s surroundings as splendidly as a stuffed dead animal.

  He needed a new accountant, and when Delphinium smelled the potential to enlarge her breadwinning husband’s reputation, she had the merciless instincts of a honey badger.

  The executive’s daughter, Millicent Palmer-Weaver, had enthusiastically endorsed Delphinium’s recommendation, because Millicent thought Delphinium was absolutely fab, in a competitive, ultra-bitchy sort of way. Really, Burton supposed, they couldn’t stand one another.

  Millicent was a “Five Hatter”, on the influential social committee of their club in Danbury. “Burton’s an absolute whiz with numbers, Daddy,” Millicent had said, champagne glass in hand, the other arm draped over Burton’s shoulders in an immediate, invasive sort of fashion.

  The theme was the Roaring 20s – every year, at least once, the theme was the Roaring 20s – and she had a sort of shimmery, beadwork flapper dress on, Burton had noted, along with a glittery headband. “Burty, tell Daddy how you saved Webber Drexham Burnett all of that money last year. They were ever so happy with him, Daddy...”

  Burton had then been wrangled into an extended work conversation with Mr. Palmer-Weaver, who smelled of hair pomade, smoked obscenely large, smelly cigars, and tried to talk through clenched teeth as he puffed away. “We.....client... too much.... deferral....” Burton was only getting every other word as he tried hard not to choke on the veil of blue smoke, and wondered how long Delphinium would insist they stay. It was amazing this old thief had reached such a ripe old age, he wheezed so much.

  It had been so unpleasant. And now, thinking back on it, Burton realized ... he was about to be hit in the forehead by a squash ball.

  Thwack! It rebounded off his forehead and rolled lethargically towards the front of the court.

  He rubbed the mild sting.

  Stuart said, “I thought you were ready. I mean really, mate, if you’re not feeling good we can call this off, just get lunch instead. There’s that new pub down the street....”

  The idea of a frothy mug of beer – even at lunch time on a work day, while tired – suddenly seemed quite appealing. Burton was conflicted; he’d missed exercising once that week already and he never drank during working hours. It didn’t do to mess with one’s sense of discipline, he’d long ago decided. Discipline could solve a world of problems.

  Still … he was too tired for squash.

  “Yeah. Head’s not really in this,” said Burton. “Maybe I can get a run in later ....”